


I've been preoccupied of late with questions of morality

by confusedrambler



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Angst, Choices, Crisis of Faith, Dark, Demons, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-13
Updated: 2016-01-13
Packaged: 2018-05-13 19:49:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5714980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/confusedrambler/pseuds/confusedrambler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’d always known there was a devil nestled within his bones and curled around his lungs. Thought, privately, that maybe even if he never crossed that line—he still wasn’t worth saving.<br/>He hadn’t known that G-d agreed.<br/>It begins as many things do: simply and without fanfare.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I've been preoccupied of late with questions of morality

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ramblemadlyon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ramblemadlyon/gifts).



> See end notes for cw. Contains spoilers!

He’d always known there was a devil nestled within his bones and curled around his lungs. Thought, privately, that maybe even if he never crossed that line—he still wasn’t worth saving.

He hadn’t known that G-d agreed.

It begins as many things do: simply and without fanfare.

He is home, alone for the long weekend, and waiting for the sun to finish creeping below the horizon. Foggy is out of town, visiting a grandfather who hates them both—but he is dying and Foggy loves his family. All business calls are forwarded to Matt’s cell. So it is not unexpected, not unusual, not threatening when he receives a call from an unknown number.

_“Is this Murdock?”_

“Yes,” he answers.

_“Matthew Murdock, of Nelson and Murdock?”_

“That’s me. Do you need representation?”

_“No.”_ And they hang up.

Strange, he thinks, and pushes the event from his mind. He will patrol the streets soon and there are more important things to occupy him.

He does not dwell on it until he mentions the call to Karen, an oddity to laugh about on their lunch break as they count down the hours until Foggy returns.

He realizes two days too late that they called the burner phone.

* * *

 

He is not worried, not about Foggy. This is not the first time he has not arrived when he said he would. These things do happen. It probably has nothing to do with the fact that someone, somewhere, may know that Matthew Murdock is the Daredevil. Foggy is only staying with his family a little longer than planned, as he sometimes does. This time, he even has the excuse of a dying relative.

And yet—

There is the phone call and a prickling sensation shuddering down his spine that this is something more. He calls Foggy’s cell.

There is no answer.

He leaves a message and suits up before he can think better of it. There is still an hour before dusk, but there is an itch beneath the skin that stretches across hard knuckles and an ocean churning in his gut.

He spends the night combing through Hell’s Kitchen, sifting through rumor and radio chatter. It is nearing three in the morning when he hears the news.

Two children, missing from their beds. No sign of forced entry and no trace of foul play. Parents distraught; they know what happens to children in the Kitchen as well as anyone.

The devil stirs within him and the itch spreads from knuckles to palms to elbows and on. Even the gutter scum of the city should know better by now; they really should.

The devil does not quiet easily when children are involved.

When the sun rises, there is blood caked in the grooves of his gloves. He spent the rest of the night rearranging faces and teasing out truths, but none of the usual suspects know aught of use.

The devil is uneasy and unsatisfied, settling into his marrow—an ache that won’t be shaken. But there is nothing more he can do, not until the sun sets and he can resume the hunt.

He cleans himself up and squeezes in two hours of sleep. It will be another long day. But when Foggy stumbles into the office with donuts and complaints about his least favorite cousin, he is certain the world will feel a little less like sandpaper grating against his nerves.

* * *

 

It is noon and there has been no word from Foggy. He does not answer their calls and Matt is willing to admit that his… concern has turned to outright worry. He sends Karen home and closes the office early.

 He makes his way to Foggy’s apartment, not hesitating to unlock the door with a spare key. No one is home; this does not surprise him. But Foggy’s scent is stronger than it should be.

Matt breathes deeply and stretches out his senses—Foggy was here the night before. His suitcase sits on his bed, unopened, and his phone rests beside it. Foggy _never_ leaves home without his cell phone.

There is concrete where his gut should be and iron weighting down his chest.

There is no sign of forced entry and no trace of foul play.

But there is no Foggy, either.

When he remembers how to breathe, he calls Claire. She answers on the third ring, steeled for the worst.

_“Mike?”_

“I need a favor.”

_“How bad is it? I can be at your apartment in thirty, but I have work in two hours. Sh-t, Mike, why didn’t you call earlier?”_

“No, it’s not—it’s not that kind of favor,” he says. “I need… I need to talk to you, face to face. Meet me in Central Park as soon as you can.”

Claire hesitates, but she agrees. He hangs up and grabs Foggy’s phone before rushing out of the apartment, hastily locking the door behind him.

She arrives at the park before him—she must have taken a cab to get here so quickly—and he can taste her worry in the air, like warm rusting metal, and hear the drumbeat of her heart. She calms, slightly, when he sits on the bench with her.

“Matt,” she whispers. “What’s going on? You’ve never done this before, it’s making me nervous.”

He slides Foggy’s phone into her palm with a grimace.

“Foggy’s missing, and I think it may have something to do with… _me_. I need you to go through his phone for me; maybe there’s a clue or something on it.”

Her breath catches at the news and she turns her attention to the phone without another word. Several minutes pass before she swears quietly and passes the phone back to him.

“He hasn’t answered anything since about a day and a half ago. That’s all I could get before it went dead, but I don’t think there was much else to find. I’m sorry, Matt.”

He breathes deeply, pressing the phone to his mouth and sorting through scents until he is certain his voice will not shake.

“Don’t be sorry. That’s… more than I had before. Thank you.”

She hums and reaches over to squeeze his shoulder gently. He wonders if she can feel the way his bones rattle.

“Is there anything else I can do?”

“No. Just, keep your head down. They shouldn’t be able to connect the two of us, and I’m gonna try my best to keep it that way. I’ll contact you again when all this is over, but… be safe, Claire.”

She snorts and digs a finger into his side, voice as low as before but sharp with anger.

“I don’t care if it’s ‘over’ or not—if you need me, you _call_ me. I patched you up through all that sh-t with Fisk. Like _h-ll_ I’m abandoning you now.”

He smiles thinly as his heartbeat quickens.

“You’re right. I’ll call you if I need you.”

* * *

 

He walks home, heart fluttering against his ribs and breath quick. He worries at his lip with his teeth. It chafes to move so slowly when he aches to sprint through the streets, but it is more important now than ever before to maintain his cover.

Foggy is missing.

Every instant he spends in contact with Claire and Karen increases the chance that they will be next.

Children are disappearing from their beds without a trace.

And the Devil gnaws at the raw edges of his bones, disquiet.

Distantly, he notes that the scent of blood is thick in the air and he can taste something metallic on his tongue; he has broken through the skin of his lip. Foggy will not approve. He sighs and swipes blood from his mouth before it can drip down his face. And stops. Inhales.

Blood—old blood tasting of rust and fear-sweat, a stench that hints at death.

Something is wrong.

He picks up the pace, cane hardly touching the ground. His apartment is close by. He’ll change into his suit and trace the scent. But—his knuckles tighten until they crack at the realization—the odor only grows heavier the closer he gets to his apartment. He races up the steps, pulse pounding in his ears, smell thick enough to choke—and stops.

He can hear the door to his apartment swaying, ajar.

The pit in his gut yaws wide and the Devil claws its way up his throat.

He drops his cane and pushes the door open with a shaking hand.

He stretches out his senses and drops to his knees with a strangled cry. The pit flips inside out and he is sick, hacking and gasping.

The memory of a dead child clutching his empty suit will haunt him to his grave.

* * *

 

 “Mr. Murdock.”

Matt blinks and shudders, clutching the blanket tighter around his shoulders.

“ _Mr. Murdock_.”

He swallows convulsively and forces himself to answer the officer.

“Yes, I—yes?”

“As I was saying, it’ll take some time for us to finish documenting things here. Is there someone you can stay with until the investigation is over? Someone nearby, if possible. We may need to question you again about what happened here.”

Matt nods and rubs his fingers against the worn cotton blanket they have draped around him. He still feels cold and hollow.

“I have a, a friend a few streets away. I’ll stay with them for a while.”

The officer squeezes his arm gently, making a sympathetic noise in the back of their throat.

“Do you need any assistance getting a bag of things together? I’d be glad to assist you, and my partner and I can give you a lift to your friend’s house when you have everything you need.”

Matt shakes his head jerkily.

“Thank you for the offer, but I can manage. I just… need a moment.”

“Sure, sure. Uh. I don’t mean to be rude, but you might want to change clothes and wash up before you start packing. It’s just—you’ve got a little, uh. A little something on you.”

Matt can feel his whole body stiffen, the hair on the back oh his neck raising.

“Officer,” he says, the word dropping from his tongue like molasses. “What do you mean by that?”

They shift uneasily and clear their throat before answering; Matt can hear the uptick in their heartbeat, not enough for a lie. Embarassment or guilt, maybe even concern.

“I just meant, well, there’s really no easy way to tell you this, Mr. Murdock. You’ve still got blood on you, sir. From when you tripped over the k—victim, I mean.”

His legs buckle and he would have fallen to the floor if Officer—they’d never introduced themself, had they—if the officer hadn’t lunged forward to catch him.

“I think,” he says faintly. “I think I may need some help after all, officer.”

**Author's Note:**

> CW: Child death, the occult, religious symbolism, human sacrifice, body horror


End file.
